


Cigarette Butts and Whirlibirds

by Abra_ca_fuck_you



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Drinking to Cope, Emotional Intelligence that is, F/F, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Maybe - Freeform, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Smoking, low intelligence courier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abra_ca_fuck_you/pseuds/Abra_ca_fuck_you
Summary: The wall still radiates heat from the day, heat that Cass can feel when she leans up beside Fig."Doesn’t it just make you feel worse?”“I guess that’s… kind of the point, isn’t it?"Sometimes the way that Fig laughs, almost doesn’t seem human. Not to say that it’s particularly animalistic.





	Cigarette Butts and Whirlibirds

**Author's Note:**

> I have not played Fallout: New Vegas, or any Fallout game at all. (Would like to! But I'm busy, so instead I became obsessed with the characters and lore through youtube videos)  
> I also do not have a beta, but if anyone were interested in beta reading for me, that would be lovely. Mostly posting this in hopes of constructive criticism, so it doesn't spend years on google docs.  
> I was kinda Inspired by other people's fics featuring "Low Int" Couriers, but Fig mostly turned out to be low on emotional intelligence. She also has my executive dysfunction, so with intelligence being so nebulous a concept anyways who knows.  
> This is non-linear not in that it's out of order, but it's a series of scenes that don't have direct cause and effect? idk if it's the right word for it or not.  
> There's discussion and portrayal of self-harm, but it falls outside of the most stereotypical forms of it. I am not someone who has personally self-harmed in this way, so feel free to provide constructive criticism.

“You both have plant names,” Is what the tall doctor says, as he looks for Cass’s vein, tapping gently on the crook of her elbow.

“What?” She asks, looking at him from under the brim of her hat.

“Well, you’re Rose of Sharon Cassidy, right? Cassidy Caravans?” He asks, then turns towards the courier, as he hangs the antivenom on the IV rack, “And you introduced yourself as Fig?”

“Fig’s just a name,” The Courier says, toeing in the dirt.

“It’s a fruit tree,” The doctor says plainly, “Mentioned in the Bible, even.”

Fig shrugs, “Never read the damn thing.”

The doctor rolls his eyes, “Cass will be alright soon, as long as you actually let it work, and rest properly tonight.”

“Whatever,” Cass says. The doctor just shakes his head and finally leaves the tent. “Some bedside manner he’s got.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sometimes it’s simpler for Fig to just agree, especially when Cass is hurt and it was her fault. Fig rubs her thumb over a bruise on her thigh, trying to avoid looking at Cass.

“What’s wrong?” Cass asks, with an even tempered voice.

“Oh uh, just feelings, yknow?” Fig says, and digs her thumb in deeper where she felt that dull pain. It doesn’t seem right to light up a cigarette here in the Fort, so this will have to do.

When she steals a glance up at Cass, she sees a quizzical look on the woman’s face, but no judgement. Curiosity is a good look on her. Fig claws around the bruise with her thumb nail, but it has no effect through the denim she wears.

They spend the night at the Old Mormon Fort, and Fig could feel Cass shaking, dry heaving, above her through the frame of the bunk bed. Fig presses her forehead against the bed frame, the cool metal helping to ease something inside.

And in the morning they don't see hide nor hair of the tall blonde doctor, so Cass follows Fig into Freeside. Both of them are quiet as they walk through the morning fog. Fig doesn't say where they're headed, and Cass doesn’t ask.

When they walk through the doors of The King’s School of Impersonation, Fig smiles kindly at Pacer, and he gives Cass a skeevy look over.

“Your shoulders look tense, chance I could offer you a massage?” Pacer asks her.

Cass scoffs and says “You oughtta put your head in a door, and then I’ll even slam it for you. Hard.”

Fig laughs to herself as they walk through to the King’s lounge room. The lights are low, and there is an enthusiastic singer on stage. The King sits in the middle of the room, with Rex’s cyber dog head resting on his thigh, and a glowing cigar in the ashtray beside him.

When he realizes that Fig and Cass have entered, he turns around and smiles, his white teeth catching the light. Fig runs her tongue over her teeth self consciously, as she approaches the man.

“Have you investigated Orris yet?” The King asks.

“Oh! No, I haven't,” Fig replies, a smile on her face all the while. The King just laughed, and gestured to the empty seats on either side of him.

“Then I imagine you have time to join me?”

“Always,” She says, and sits beside The King. Cass goes for the other side, beside Rex.

“What has brought you back to Freeside?” The King asks.

“Oh, well, I let Cass get bit by something, so we went to the Fort,” Fig says, She picks at the strap of her back pack, sitting beside her.

Cass snorts, “Was my own damn fault. Not your job to take care of me.”

The courier huffs out a strange laugh, and tightens her fingers around the strap. “How is Rex?” Fig asks, changing the subject.

The King looks down on the somber dog, and runs his hand over the brain container.

“He had the shakes again last night,” Rex turns his head and looks up at The King with one of his eyes, “I’m gettin’ real worried.”

Fig looks into his other eye, _I know how you feel,_ she thinks, _Well, I think I do._

“They got some good doctors at the Mormon Fort,” she offers, after looking deep into that eye, “They might know something… good.” Fig looks up to see Cass picking at her cuticles, she can’t seem to bring herself to care.

“Oh I talked to Julie. Called her a useless sad sack of-” The King cuts himself off, thinking better of his words. He smooths his hand over one of Rex’s ears, “But, maybe, maybe they’ll have something better to say to you.”

 

* * *

 

The Atomic Wrangler isn’t exactly Cass’s first choice, but she had already started on her way to tipsy when she’d followed Fig in the doors. Fig had decided that she must talk to that James guy immediately, while they were half way down a cigarette and through a bottle of whiskey, sitting on a random porch and trying vainly to look at the stars.

Fig walks straight up to the bartender, and she and James get to whispering. Cass could have sworn she heard something about a robot, but she shrugs that thought off as she sits at Beatrix’s table. Bea gives her that same flirty smile that she gives everyone as Cass reaches for her glass. Cass doesn’t like to order from James, he gives her the creeps.

“When Fig enters a room, I’m always willing to bet that Lady Cassidy ain’t far behind,” Beatrix says as Cass takes a long swig of the cocktail.

“Is there even anythin’ in that?” Cass asks, her nose crinkling.

“Watched him drop two shots in myself,” Bea says, leaning back in her seat, “Some of that new gin they’re making in house.”

“Might as well be water then.”

“You’re probably right.”

Cass steals another sip regardless. The syrupy shit isn’t really her style, she’s more indulging her impulse to have something in her hand. Beatrix smiles with her pointy canines, as she pulls the glass from Cass’s fingers. 

The maraschino syrup clings to her teeth, and Cass runs her tongue over them, vaguely self conscious of some sort of red stain. The taste lingers in her mouth as she watches an unfamiliar patron approach Beatrix.

And they exchange words like they’ve done so a thousand times before. Bea places a hand on the strangers hip, and uses them to lever her up to a standing position. Cass can’t actually pick out anything either of them said, but she does hear a growl, low in Beatrix’s throat. She only glances briefly over her shoulder at Cass before taking off upstairs. And Cass is left, with a pink drink, and an empty seat beside her. 

Fig is now sitting alone at the bar, looking into the distance, and smoking a cigarette that Cass rolled for her earlier that day.

Cass arms herself with the stolen drink as she crosses over to Fig.

“How’d it go with whatsisface?”

“Hm?” Fig’s eyes are still distant and fuzzy. A gentle hand on her shoulder pulls her back, “Oh, yeah, business.”

Cass would push further if she actually cared, if she thought she’d actually succeed, but instead she just rolls her eyes. As she sits down, she notices Fig’s cigarette drifting lower.

“Why do you do that?” Cass hisses between her teeth, catching Figs thin wrist in her fingers.

Figs eyes go wide, looking at Cass and jerking her hand free, “Do what?”

“The burns, bruises,”

“It’s… just feelings,” Fig grasps at the old excuse, and turns away. She takes one last long drag, before stubbing it out on the bar top, refusing to look at Cass.

“Fig…” Cass says, as Fig jumps off the bar stool. Cass sighs and, as always, follows.

Despite not finishing her last, Fig is lighting a new cigarette. And before Cass has stopped her, she’s pressed the warm lighter against her thigh. Fig sighs heavily, smoke escapes her lips and twirls into the sky. The wall still radiates heat from the day, heat that Cass can feel when she leans up beside Fig.

“I can’t make you talk about it, can I?”

“About what?”

Cass sighs, and holds her hand in front of her. Fig easily passes the cigarette into her hand. They watch the street for a good long while, but the only particularly interesting thing is a King trying in vain to ride a bicycle. Hopefully not stolen, probably stolen.

“It’s just when I feel bad,” Fig says finally.

“But doesn’t it just make you feel worse?”

Fig looks up at the blinking light of The Tops Casino, looming over Freeside. “I guess that’s… kind of the point, isn’t it? I mean when you feel bad…” Fig furrows her brow.

“When I feel bad I drink, and it makes me feel better. Helps me sleep.” Cass keeps her head pointed down, shadowing her face with her hat.

“And then you wake up with a headache.”

“Only sometimes.”

“It’s been getting worse.”

Before Cass can compose any sort of response, a drunk woman steps out of the Wrangler, cackling, her voice echoing through the streets, leaving no space for either of them to think. She walks uncomfortably close past them, and her swishing skirt brushes against Cass’s leg. The woman’s compatriot, a scrawny fellow, scampers after her.

Fig cracks up only a moment later, tilting her head up against the wall. Cass shakes her head, smile reaching across her face. Sometimes the way that Fig laughs, almost doesn’t seem human. Not to say that it’s particularly animalistic.

**Author's Note:**

> blse be kind, blease


End file.
